A Matter of Mortality
by casus17
Summary: He's sure he's killed the man before." Because apparently no one ever really dies in science fiction - NOT a pre-emptive tag to Remnants, completely stand alone - Shep whump


**Disclaimer:** Not mine!

**Author's Note:** This was literally written just now, about ten minutes ago, and I decided to post it straight away, cause I finally finished exams, and this is my celebration – my non-alcoholic, completely in my room cause I'm tired celebration!

Um, came from… well, who knows. But I was reading a fic on here, one that has absolutely nothing to do with this story, and suddenly began thinking about the trailer for Remnants, and what I know of the ep. I won't say anymore here, just in case you want to remain spoiler-free, but this sort of came from that, and the fact that apparently no one ever really dies in science fiction…

So, enjoy. It might be a bit rough, cause it was written pretty quick, and I'm tired, so there might be a few mistakes.

Anywho, goodnight… unless I start on my NCIS crossover sequel… hmm, could do that instead…

* * *

**A Matter of Mortality**

He's sure he's killed the man before.

And John knows he's been killed by the very same figure lying on the muddy ground before him, the noon rain washing away the blood that seemed too bright and red under the cloudy sky.

What he can't figure out is why it keeps on resetting. Why he keeps being dragged back to the beginning, where he's running, and panting, and terrified out of his mind, like some kid in a nightmare.

Only this nightmare never ends, no matter how many times –

* * *

He's running again.

He's exhausted, and it goes beyond the tiredness he feels in the beginning of this… whatever the hell this is. He lost count so long ago, of how many times he has run through the forest, trying to get away, making new plans, remembering and discarding old ones. He just keeps on coming back to the running, and it is taking its toll. His weariness is bone deep, past exhaustion, past fatigue, past anything he has ever felt in his life.

He can hear the hunter behind him. Crashing through the trees and undergrowth, like they mean nothing, like they aren't whipping against his bare skin like they are Sheppard's, like the mud isn't trapping his soggy, heavy, booted feet like it is John's. No, instead the hunter catches up, his sounds, his feet, his breathing, coming ever closer.

The hunter always catches up, no matter how fast John runs.

This time it ends quickly. Desperate, tired, he's able to remember every single moment of every single time he's run, and fought, and died and killed, the memories blurring together like one big, steaming portion of his own private hell. So this time, he's almost glad when suddenly the hunter is in front of him, this time with a long wooden spear.

Pain lances through his chest as the hunter lances the spear through his lung.

John's moving so fast the spear makes it all the way through before it stops. He slides to a halt, his feet stumbling in the mud, the world quickly going grey around him. He drops, to his knees, losing feeling in his legs, his arms numb, unable to feel the blood trickling over his lips and down his chin as once again he fades –

* * *

He's running again.

He's so sick of it he almost wants to cry. Wishes that when the hunter catches him this time, it will be the end, it will all be over. But his legs continue pumping, running, as fast as they can on shaking limbs, on sore ankles, on blistered feet with soggy, heavy boots.

This time John tries for the castle rising out of the forest a few hundred metres away. Again. He's tried before, he remembers, with mixed results. Just a dozen or two of the hundreds of memories ensconced in his head from the last God knows how long.

And again, this time, he makes it to the shelter of the gate into the mighty stone building, the roof over his head bringing great relief from the downpour outside, in the forest.

Only for a millisecond, before the hunter tackles him from behind, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

His bones jar, the hunter is so much bigger than him, but John doesn't have time for weakness. Recovering as quickly as he can he spins in the dirt, muddying his tattered uniform, and brings his arms up in a solid cross above his head.

The forearm of the hunter rams into them, and the tip of the blade halts just an inch from Sheppard's nose.

John never gets a weapon. The hunter, always, always has a weapon of some kind, a gun, a knife, a sword, even a trident and a net seven times. But John has only his wit and his will to stop his death every single time. It's the one thing that has never changed.

That and the running, anyway.

He tries not to think about that, about how this is the umpteenth time he has fought this man, so big and broad, under this gate, in this dirt, with this same knife. He almost wonders if the hunter remembers all these battles as well, all the times he had killed John or John had killed him. He almost tries to talk to the hunter before the knife slips closer by a half inch.

So instead John thrusts with his hips, sending the hunter sailing over his head.

But he holds onto the man's hand, his wrist, holding it just so that the wrist snaps and the blade drops. His will to survive, to live, to just end this again, that ensures he catches the knife, and this time when they both rise, John has the blade, and a second later it's sliding too easily into the hunter's abdomen.

And he tries not to look into the man's dying, pained eyes as they go dark, as the light escapes them, as he yet again fades before Sheppard's very eyes.

* * *

The next time the running leads to a tackle under the gate of the castle – not the next time, or the time after that, or even the tenth time after that – the hip thrust doesn't work, and this time it's the hunter who watches the light die in Sheppard's eye.

* * *

Again, he's running, and he's slipping, and the rain soaks his hair, clears the blood and makes his breathing hard, wet, like he should have a hacking cough to go with the bubble in his throat, chest and lungs.

But he's still running, he always is. Only this time, he's running further than he thinks he's ever run before. Maybe in another life, before the running, but in this life, in this hell, the hunter had always caught him before now.

He can still hear the hunter. Can still hear him barrelling through the forest behind him, can hear his heavy boots, his thick breathing, the rattle of a sword in its sheath. But this time… this time is different. It is actually different, and it scares Sheppard, because things have been so similar for so long, even if they were never identical.

Suddenly the forest thins out into a clearing, perfectly round, almost untouched by mud. He slows, for some reason he can't fathom, and even comes to a halt, the need to run almost so overpowering that he would have started up once more almost instantly if his own stubbornness hadn't kept him glued to the spot.

And when the hunter crashes through the trees into the clearing, he stops too. But John thinks the hunter only stopped because he had found his prey.

The sword makes a rasping, scraping sound as it slides out of its sheath.

Heart pumping, John and the hunter circle each other, that two-foot long blade raised between them. Sheppard keeps his eyes on his opponent, tries to find the human in those orbs staring just as steadily back at him. But all he finds is disdain, like the hunter John describes him as in his own head.

And then the hunter attacks, swinging wildly with the sword. Expecting it, John jumps back, the tip missing him by inches, and he tries to move in, to shorten the range, so the hunter can't use his weapon.

But the hunter is quick, and he slashes once more, and with his inbound movement, John feels the blade slice through skin above his ribs.

But there is no fading this time, though the pain remains. The wound is not fatal, and John tries to ignore it, moving away to avoid being cut further, but still moving in, determined not to die this round.

The hunter swings, as if the sword were an axe, bringing the hilt down from above his head as if to chop Sheppard cleanly in half. John jumps to the side, keeping in close, and when the clenched hands pass him on their way down, he latches on, roughly crushing those fingers beneath his own. He kicks out at the same time, and his foot lands expertly just above the hunter's knee. The hunter screams as his knee breaks, and before Sheppard knows it, he has the sword, it's raised above his head, and he's just about to impale the squirming hunter on the ground.

That's when he realizes he can't feel the rain.

It is still coming down, obstructing his vision, making the entire world grey, but he can no longer feel the drops on his head, in his eyes, can no longer hear the mud squelching beneath his soggy boots as he shifts, trying to figure out what is wrong with him. No longer has the incredible urge to impale the hunter lying, waiting, before him.

And that's when he notices his chest.

It's tight, and sore, and as he takes one, two, three steps back he realises it's only getting worse. Then, a second of intense pain, like an electric shock passing through his very heart, and when the white clears, he's on his knees, clutching his chest, the sword discarded to one side.

All sense is gone. The touch of the rain, the sound of it, the smell of the mud and death lingering in the forest air, it's all disappeared. It's still there, he's sure of it, but he feels so disconnected he knows he could have been convinced it was all a dream.

Another flash of pain so bad he screams in his own head, and suddenly the world blinks. The rain, the daylight, the cloud cover, the trembling hunter, they all disappear for one blink of an eye and a stone, dry dark wall.

The vision clears, for a small moment, and then another flash of pain, another blink, though this time his eyes take in the strange machines to the side, like stasis pods, but with wires and needles going everywhere. And he hears a voice, strange, but oh so familiar, a voice he's been longing to hear after countless, infinite repeats of running and dying and killing.

"Sheppard…"

It fades out, and he's panting on his knees again, wondering what the hell is happening, and if he is finally dying. It wouldn't surprise him, he decides, because he had died so many times already.

And then, one more flash of pain so intense his body arches on the ground, and the world blinks. Only this time is stays blinked, and the world of wet and mud and death fades from his mind.

"John?"

He can't speak, he feels so exhausted, but he blinks once, just to let the worried doctor leaning over him know that he can hear her. And see her, and feel the touch of her hands on his head as she checks him over visually.

Beside her, Rodney sits, worried, eyes wide, hands wringing in front of his chest as he tries to figure out what he needs to do and comes up empty. The scientist visibly relaxes when he sees Sheppard's eyes are open, and heaves a sigh of relief as Keller puts her defibrillators away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sheppard can see the machines, the two pods just big enough for a human being. His eye sight is not exactly 20/20 at the moment, but he can also make out the stands behind it, and what looks like a Wraith computer screen.

McKay sees what he is looking out, and some of that relief turns to anger, fear, disgust. "It's okay, Sheppard. We got you out of that sorry excuse for… entertainment. We stopped it. Just rest."

He doesn't want to rest, doesn't want to close his eyes, knowing he'll slip back in and begin running once more. But he can't help it. With some distress he falls, fading, and in a last ditch attempt at keeping himself awake, his head flops to the other side.

And there lies the hunter, Teyla leaning over his pale, shrunken body, shaking her head as she checks his pulse and finds nothing. And behind her, being watched over by Ronon, and Lorne, and some marines, were a group of men who Sheppard felt like he recognised, from the end of a life so long ago…

But even that isn't enough to keep him awake, and he slips into unconsciousness, though not deep enough to escape.

And in his nightmares, he runs again.

* * *

John wakes with a start, and tries to sit up, but he's tired, and sore, and others do enough jumping for him so that he doesn't really feel the need to emulate them.

He's not sure where he is, but wherever it is, his team is suddenly surrounding him, leaning in, faces pale and relieved, all ready to mother him, and ask him how he is, and he suddenly realizes that is the question he least wants to answer, but he knows it's inevitable.

Teyla doesn't disappoint. "John, how are you feeling?"

He gives the tiniest of head shakes and looks around, feeling as if he recognises this place, though it's hard in the dark. "Where am I?" he asks in place of answering Teyla's question.

They all lean back, recognising his need for space.

Ronon brings the memories of an earlier lifetime back. "Atlantis."

McKay gave a half-shrug, putting his hands on his hips. "You're okay now, Sheppard. We got you back."

The memories are slowly coming back, making the repeats of running and death seem so much smaller. It's a little relief, remembering being captured, being dragged into that chamber, being shoved into the pod, the needles piercing his skin as it closed and he entered that wet, muddy forest and an eon of hell.

"How long?" he demands as Keller comes over, the noise in the otherwise silent infirmary.

"A day," Rodney tells him, and his jaw drops, his head shakes as he tries to deny it. Even with the running shrinking, making room for his real memories, it's hard to believe he wasn't in it for longer.

"You were lucky we got there that quickly, too," Keller tells him quietly, knowing he will want the truth despite any inner voice commanding her otherwise. "The strain it took on your body… the other man had only been in there a week, and there was no way he was going to survive coming out."

John swallows, remembering the hunter, remembering the cold, distant eyes as they watched him die, remembering the hunter's own eyes fading. The memory is so strong he almost expects to be dragged back to the beginning, to the running, and flinches when he isn't.

They all notice, but he ignores their worried looks, struggling too much with his own feelings, with the idea that he should feel sorry for the man competing with the refusal to feel guilt and empathy for the man who had killed him hundreds of times over.

Teyla was the one to eventually break the silence. "John… we saw… the video feed, of what was happening in the virtual reality. Saw you fighting…"

He can't help the short barking laugh. "More than that. That was one fight. I lost count after seventy-seven, and that was one of the earlier ones. Hundreds of fights, times when he killed me, or I killed him. And then it would start all over again."

He hadn't meant to say anything, but feels better when they don't look at him with any differently – that pity had already been there. He clears his throat, trying to wrap his head around the fact that it was all… a game. "So, what happened to the guys behind virtual Gladiator?"

"We confiscated their equipment and turned them over to their own people to deal with them," McKay told him with a shrug. "I tried to convince Woolsey that we should leave them on some abandoned planet somewhere, or put them through their own device, but he said something about not stooping to their level."

"Personally I wouldn't mind stooping," Ronon muttered. Sheppard agreed, but he didn't say anything. McKay just shrugged.

"Their people were not happy with their use of such advanced technology," the scientist told them all. "Trust me, they're not going to get away with it."

"Good," Sheppard decided, relaxing into his pillows. The longer he spent conscious, and better yet, lucid, the more he could reconcile his mind with the fact that everything he had just endured had been fake. Maybe that should have made it worse, but Sheppard knew that compared to some of the things he had been through, virtual reality wasn't so bad.

Though it would be a while before he would be able to close his eyes and not expect to open them up to rain, mud and running.

His team shares a look, and he can tell when they relax. It helps that they sit back down as well, except Keller, who looks ready to pounce onto her examination of him.

"It looked so real," McKay suddenly pipes up, complaining when Ronon elbows him in the side. "Ow!"

Sheppard frowns. "What did?" he demands, not sure he wants to know, but knowing at the same time that he is far too curious for his own good.

"The screen, showing your… um, fighting…" McKay trails off as if he's suddenly remembered why he wasn't supposed to say anything. "We got confused at first, because we thought you were really up there, being watched somewhere else. And then we saw your shirt next to the pod…"

John actually chuckles. "Good thing it wasn't," he tells them, flashes of being stabbed, choked, shot, his neck snapped, falling, and struck rolling just behind his eyes. He means his next words as a joke, and that's how his team takes it, but the words can't help but have a ring of truth in his own ears.

"You know that no one ever dies in science fiction."


End file.
